


My Girls

by Thefacelesswriter



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: A far from gentle rant, F/M, Far Cry 4 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/pseuds/Thefacelesswriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From afar I watch, unable to step one foot into that place. The king of Kyrat was scared of only one thing and that was the past. Another story from the eyes of the king concerning those he loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Girls

From afar I watch, unable to step one foot into that place. Cautious but steady, Ajay enters the shrine and disappears from my sight. The king of Kyrat was scared of only one thing and that was the past. That is where my girls will remain from now until when the very earth itself dissolves beneath them. I will never see them again, nor will I hold them. Even now their faces are faded at the corners, smaller details lost in passing time. Nevertheless, they will always be my girls: my lover, my daughter.

I wait quietly, the helicopters blades whipping sharp wind against my back. The feeling is familiar. It only takes a faint scent, a gentle touch, a word pronounced in such a way, and I remember everything in such vivid memory. These recollections sit like shrapnel under my skin. The explosion they came from has long since died yet the shards it expelled remain under my skin: aching. It’s the wind that reminds me of Ishwari, the touches she gave me, the shape of her fingerprints against my cheek. She herself was like the wind, an element that could be both tranquil and wild. Her passion was legendary, kindness unearthly. At breakfast she would always eat the fruit with her hands, the juice catching in the cracks of her hands. I remember tasting the sweetness on her lips, wondering how such a woman could make me feel so... alive. She would be a fine mother, I once thought.

The wind gained a bite. It became a painful reminder. Even now it tends to sting. I would wonder if I would ever see her again. Then I would wonder if I would ever receive a letter, a phone call, something that I could call an attempt. Of course I didn’t, but still I lay in hopeful wait. Did she still think of me? Did she still love me? Maybe those thoughts were small and barely there, shoved behind a closed door and left with the rest of the pain. Perhaps she loathed me in her last hours. The thoughts stretched on. They lasted years, I realize now. It was self inflicted, unconscious torture. 

I don’t know who lights the incense anymore, surely the same persistent cunt that lights the candles. He doesn’t know my daughter; it is the fact that she was barely a child that is enough to earn a flame. The smell is heavy and mournful and reaches me even from outside, makes me feel physically sick, forces me to remember the last time I entered that small room. I press a hand to my face and force myself to stop. When she comes to mind the walls within my mind begin to shake, threatening to give way to an avalanche of god knows what. Slowly, persistently, I am forgetting her face. Tiny hands that fit in my palm, I can remember but I can no longer feel how soft they were to hold. Her laughter is only something I once recall hearing. It was breathtaking; I will never hear another like it. My Lakshmana, slowly fading from my mind as time trickles by. There is no pain quite like this one.

The helicopter is waiting for me, blades beginning to spin again. I hear footsteps from within the shrine and know it is time to go. I approach my vehicle, unable to turn back. For the last time my feet touch Kyrat’s soil, its ground hard and layered with stones. Perhaps I will never touch the ground again. From this second forward I will remain running and shall do so until I’ve died. To live with such liberty is fucking invigorating. From here on life is a surprise, and not solely a good one I can admit. My (well, Eric’s) face will be shat on by the world. Everything I have created will be burnt to the ground and replaced by things just as odious. And Ajay, the son of the man who murdered my daughter, will be hailed as a God. 

Finally, he leaves the shrine. I shout down to him, unsure if he can hear. Here’s my kingdom, feel free to fuck it up as much as you please. It’s already gone to shit. I’ll just find myself a nice island with my helicopter. And of course that’s bullshit, and of course I only say half, but I know I say what needs be said. This man does not want sympathy; a part of me decides he doesn’t deserve it. Even from a distance I can see something has changed inside of him, a fire gently patted into mere embers. The rage has been sated, the storm calmed. The essence of the Golden Path has seen the corruption within itself. Soon it shall exist as a figment of the past only to be replaced by more shit-stirring guerrilla warfare, and soon Ajay will become the villain just as I did, simply one king of thousands. The cycle is endless and flawed and fucking ridiculous. 

The helicopter rounds the shrine and I take my final glance. I should’ve made it bigger, secured the roof so it could brave the storms to come. I attempt to leave those memories of my girls to rest, placing them down forever. That’s when the worst one crawls out from the dark, the dangerous memory. I sit down, hand reaching for the knife in my jacket, holding it tight, committing myself to some sort of movement. My darling Lakshmana looked so small beneath the blanket, her whole body submerged with only the crown of her head showing. At first I had thought she was covered in red flowers, big blossoming roses tied to her hair. I was so fucking stupid to think that. She was cold, cold like the snow. Something so small was never meant to feel like that. From there my memory is sporadic, recalling everything accompanied by the sound of screaming. I remember running to her, taking Ishwari’s arm and begging her to stay, let the soldiers take his head, for her to remain here. We were covered in blood, our faces and clothes and skin. Not you too, I hear my own words clearly. If I knew it would the last time I’d touch her, I would have held her tight and told her plain and simple: I love you, and I loved her. 

From then on came muted conversations, a knife or gun or whatever constantly in my hand, white flowers scattered like cigarette ash. There was no funeral. I fucking hate funerals. Ishwari was gone by then. Ajay was barely a boy. By that point, he looked just like his father. It must have killed her, I knew.

I had the flowers burned in the courtyard, every picture of Lakshmana turned face down, her room stripped bare and locked from the inside. My child never existed. I remember rage like it was the only thing I had. Everything I did came from wrath, anger that burned through me like magma, unable to be turned into anything else. The Golden Path took on the face of the man who murdered my child and I fought it with a youthful ferocity. With her death came a thousand more, women and men and some children too. I was the king Machiavelli transcribed as supreme. Yet I know with all the blood and heartbreak and madness that it was all because of my own incompetency, my failure to withhold the promise I made to my daughter. I will protect you from all that is evil, even myself. You will always be my priority. And yet there she is, ageless and weighing as much as a feather, constricted to a fucking metal jar. I should’ve scattered her, but then she would have been alone. Now Ishwari is here, I tell myself, now she has her mother. They are together again. Will I ever be there? Will the effort be made? I have my doubts.

We fly far away. We are heading south towards the sea. I am alone spare the driver. He’ll be found with multiple stab wounds, shoved under the seat with the getaway car long gone. I’ll surely find myself at the house of a friend I forgot I had, one who I’ll have to deal with if he gets chatty. It’s all protocol, something Ishwari never appreciated. I don’t know what happened to me. Leaving them feels strange, makes me lean on my knees and face the floor. I can’t think right now. I think of them left to roam together for an eternity, for Ishwari to hold our daughter and dance with her upon the wind, and I ache to be with them: my beautiful, barely there girls.

**Author's Note:**

> So I finished Far Cry 4. Firstly, apologies. I realized I got things wrong in my last story, Hot Water. I thank you for overlooking the incorrect characterization and simply taking the story at face value. Thank you for the lovely kudos and especially the comments. I appreciate it.
> 
> Secondly, now I've finished Far Cry 4. The ending hit me like a bus and ran over me several times, causing severe internal bleeding to my feels. I decided to write another story, and this one was going to be in third person (my personal preference) however I found myself swaying to Min's words once again. This story is hopefully accurate in all its forms. I wasn't able to find out some details concerning Lakshmana's death, however I apologize if I (again) get anything wrong.
> 
> I'll stop talking now.


End file.
